"Looks as if you had got me beat and I've no use for talking. Now the light's good, I'll take a proper look at your party's tracks."
Stannard let him go and soon afterwards Bob came in. Sitting down on the boards, he struck a pungent sulphur match and lighted his pipe. Stannard's glance got hard. He knew the Western hired man's independence, but he thought Bob truculent.
"The warden's very ill and your tobacco's rank," he said.
"He's sick all right. I doubt if he'll get better," Bob agreed in a meaning voice, although he did not put away his pipe.
For a few moments Stannard pondered. To baffle the young trooper had rather amused him, but to dispute with Bob was another thing.
"If Douglas does not get better, it will be awkward," Stannard said.
"It will sure be awkward for Mr. Leyland."
"Or for you!"
"Shucks! You know I was sort of superintending and hadn't a gun."
"I don't know," said Stannard. "You stated you had not a gun. In the meantime, I imagine Simpson is measuring distances and fixing angles, or something like that. I can't judge if he knows his job; perhaps you can."